Promise of Joy

by Allen Drury

  “No, it is not the truth of it!” Vasily Tashikov cried. “That is bluff! Empty bluff! I will show you the truth of it, Mr. President and gentlemen, since you are so pigheaded and so blind. Comrades!” And he rounded so suddenly on the generals and admirals seated beside him that a couple of them actually jumped. “Bring out your charts! Bring out your photographs! Bring out your maps! Show these arrogant madmen what their true military situation is!”

  And for the next half hour he and his colleagues proceeded to do so: the bomb-carrying satellites hovering everywhere over the earth; the submarines on station off both coasts of the United States; the secret missile bases in Cuba and elsewhere in Latin America; the secret installations in the untracked Arctic wastes of touchy, unsuspecting Canada; the worldwide network of air bases; the fleets of conventional naval craft afloat in every sea; the millions of men and women under arms; the worldwide network of spies, saboteurs and informants working ceaselessly inside the United States and everywhere else to assist the imperial ambitions of the nation whose smugly satisfied leader sat across the table uttering occasional little grunts of satisfaction as his officers displayed their deadly wares.

  It was an amazingly candid and amazingly complete accounting, provided for one purpose only: to scare the Americans into surrender without further defiance.

  When the recital ended there were no visible signs that this had been accomplished; although the President, looking thoughtfully from face to face, wondered what the reaction would be when they got away from this carefully orchestrated pressure chamber and were back on their own home ground.

  And so, obviously, wondered the Chairman and his colleagues as, stolid and impassive save for Vasily, who could not resist little chuckles and chortles and happy sounds from time to time, they surveyed the outwardly impassive but inwardly shaken Americans across the table. At least they thought the Americans must be shaken, so admittedly impressive and overwhelming was the array of horrors spread before them. Yet here, as always, men failed to comprehend innate American optimism; nor did they give sufficient weight to “Orrin’s little extra.”

  Presently, as the Chairman looked at him expectantly and challenged, “Well, Mr. President?”—it came out.

  “Once before,” the President said, and the room was very still and they listened very closely for intimations of fear which did not come, “I was privileged—or unfortunate enough—to attend a meeting in Geneva somewhat similar to this. You will recall, Mr. Chairman, for you were there too, that the principals were the two gentlemen then occupying the Presidency and the Chairmanship. You will recall as vividly as I, Senator Munson and Senator Strickland, who also were there, what happened from your side on that occasion: virtually the same thing, and for the same reason—to frighten the United States into giving in without further ado to every insane ambition of the Soviet hierarchy.

  “And you will further recall the response of the President of the United States, that good man, Harley Hudson: he told you you were crazy, and he got up and walked out. And that”—he pushed back his chair and stood up—“is, I think, a fine practice for American Presidents to follow in situations such as this. And so I shall make it my own. Gentlemen—”

  And he gave Tashikov a cursory nod that barely maintained civility, turned and walked out, followed, after a moment’s startled hesitation, by his countrymen.

  Behind them as the gates slammed shut they could hear Tashikov shouting into the frozen night, “You will be sorry for this, Mr. President! Knox, you will be sorry!”

  But he did not turn back, reply or in any way acknowledge this kindly farewell, any more than Harley had under similar circumstances two years ago—though now the stakes were even higher, the risks of defiance even greater and the consequences, in every sector, even more dreadfully in doubt.

  When they reached the White House, passing once again through the silent and now completely deserted streets, it was almost 2 a.m. and bitterly cold. But although they all looked tired, none more desperately so than himself, he turned to them with a businesslike manner when they got out of the cars under the South Portico.

  “I hate to hold you here at this hour and under such circumstances, but we’ve obviously got to talk. The staff will make you comfortable in the solarium and I’ll join you there in twenty minutes with the latest war reports and anything else of significance.”

  When they were reassembled, furnished with coffee and doughnuts, coats off and relaxing, as much as possible under the circumstances, in the solarium’s comfortable family chairs and sofas, he said, “Now, tell me: Have I destroyed the world?”

  “Not yet,” Bill Abbott said with a grim little smile. “But it may come in ten minutes.”

  “Did you believe all that?” Cullee asked, and Blair Hannah looked a little blank.

  “How can you not?” he inquired. “It conforms generally to what we know from our own intelligence reports. Yes, I believe it.”

  “And I,” Robert A. Leffingwell said.

  “And I,” said several others.

  “Then,” the Vice President said quietly, and now they all turned to the President where he sat, a little apart, in a deep rattan chair with bright, chintzy, summer-cheerful pillows that seemed almost frighteningly incongruous with the conversation, “where do we go from here?”

  “We proceed with the new offensives I have ordered in Gorotoland and Panama,” Orrin said with equal quietness, “and we wait and see.”

  “When will they occur?” Bob Munson asked.

  “Within hours,” Blair Hannah said.

  “And for all practical purposes,” William Abbott said heavily, “they will take everything we’ve got.”

  “For all practical purposes,” the President agreed, still quietly, “they will take everything we’ve got.”

  “And if they fail?” Warren Strickland asked.

  The President looked him straight in the eye and did not flinch.

  “Then I suppose the United States for the first time in its history will have to sue for peace on the battlefield. And I shall undoubtedly be impeached.”

  “And what will happen to the United States then, Mr. President?” Bob Leffingwell inquired.

  “I do not know,” the President said, and a certain iron entered his tone, “because I do not contemplate that the United States will fail.”

  “But if it does, Mr. President,” his predecessor inquired with a grave persistence.

  “I do not contemplate that,” Orrin repeated quietly, and William Abbott said in a tone both disturbed and compassionate, “But you must.…” He sighed heavily and leaned forward. “Orrin, you are asking us to take an awful lot on faith—your faith. You’re taking a terrible responsibility and asking us to share—”

  “No more terrible than you took with the alert,” the President said sharply, “no more than many of our predecessors have had to take, in their time.… And you don’t have to share it with me, any of you, if you don’t want to.” His tone hardened. “You can go now, nothing’s to stop you. Blair and Bob Leffingwell, you can resign if you don’t want to be responsible.” A grim little humor touched his mouth for a second. “You haven’t been confirmed anyway, so what’s there to resign from? None of you has to stay with me, none of you has to help me—”

  “As long as the armed forces will obey you,” Bob Munson suggested. The President paused in mid-sentence.

  “I am the Commander-in-Chief!” he snapped. “Furthermore, while they’re concerned and upset, as we all are, as Blair and I both know they are, from the talk we had with them yesterday, still they will do their best for me because that is their training and their loyalty. And, I might add, this conforms to their instinct as military men—their instinct that there comes a moment when, if everything is tossed on the dice, if the moment is seized with courage and vigor, all will come right. They are going with me at this very moment, making the preparations I have asked them to, because in their hearts this is the way they would like to have it decided, clean
ly and quickly and on our terms … which I do believe,” he concluded gravely, “can be achieved in a swift, decisive act.”

  “If it is swift,” William Abbott said moodily. “If it is decisive. If it is clean, if it is final … none of which is certain on the dusty plains of Gorotoland or in the jungles of Panama.”

  There was a silence and into it Cullee Hamilton spoke finally in a hesitant yet determined tone.

  “There is one other way, Mr. President. It goes against your grain, it goes against mine and, I suspect, against that of all of us here. And I hate to give any credit to that jackass Jawbone for suggesting it: nonetheless, he did. And that’s to stay in place. Simply to send in enough to stabilize the battlelines, regain as much as possible where we’ve been pushed back, which can probably be done with a third of the effort you’re contemplating—and then sit tight. Go back to the UN. Continue the diplomacy. Fight the propaganda war. Hold where we are—and wait for some break to come. It could perhaps be done that way. It’s a possibility.…”

  “But not, I think,” the President said, “a very good one. We had stalemate when Bill was in the White House, and what happened? We tried diplomacy, we tried deals, we tried secret negotiations, we held where we were—and the minute they thought we were off balance, they struck. And they’ll strike again, whenever they think they have the chance. They don’t give up.… No,” he said, and his tone again became firm, so that they felt a near hopelessness as they listened, though basically they sympathized. “I don’t want stalemate, because I think that only means a delayed victory for them later. Rightly or wrongly—history will have to decide—I lived that day at the Monument Grounds and Ted Jason died. If it had been the other way around, he would be sitting here now, and no doubt you’d have stalemate, delay, maybe even appeasement and surrender—we’ll never know. But I lived and I was elected, and even though many had misgivings about me, the majority elected me knowing that I have always advocated a firm policy, a direct policy—a ‘tough’ policy, if you like. So for better or worse, that’s what we’ve got. That’s my nature and my philosophic belief and my personal conviction—and so that is how I am acting, not as Ted Jason would, because I am not Ted Jason, but as Orrin Knox, because I am Orrin Knox.”

  He looked at their tense and worried faces. Old friendship, understanding, sympathy, affection, softened his face and his voice as he concluded.

  “I know this is not easy for any of you. I know you are afraid—as, let’s face it, I am afraid. If any of you wants to walk out of here and repudiate me, I shall certainly understand and I shall certainly not hold it against you—you know me well enough to believe that, I hope. But being what I am, I cannot do other than I am. I should like to have you with me, and I appreciate, more than words can adequately express, your affection and concern, which I reciprocate. But I must do it my way, for that is the way in which I believe.

  “The consequences to my country, the consequences to”—for a second his voice trembled, then grew strong again—“to my family, the consequences to me, may be incalculable. But I believe there is a place for right and justice in the world and I believe it has come to me, in my turn, to try to save them. I know history is full of men who believed they were doing this, only to find that history did not agree with them, and it turned out eventually that all-unknowing they were doing something entirely different. But I can only remain firm, and try. Because that is my being—that is what I am.”

  When he concluded there was another silence, very long and very solemn this time; and only after several minutes had passed did William Abbott, looking tired and old but still indomitable, stand up, put on his coat, his topcoat and his hat.

  “Orrin,” he said, holding out his hand. “I don’t know where we will all be in three or four days. But I suspect I’ll be standing with you, wherever it is.”

  “And I,” Cullee said, shaking hands, too. “And I,” said Bob Munson and Warren Strickland, and Robert A. Leffingwell and Blair Hannah.

  And so with great emotion the moment ended and they went forth from the White House into the ghostly night, to be driven home through ghostly streets to their respective abodes.

  As often happened, because the Sheraton Park was on the way to “Vagaries,” the ex-President rode with the ex-Majority Leader.

  As he dropped Bill Abbott off at the hotel shortly before 3 a.m., Bob Munson broke their hitherto silent ride to say with a heavy sigh:

  “Well, many of us have always believed his way was the right way. We just never quite thought anybody would ever have the chance to really prove it out. Now he’s got it, and he’s doing it, and he isn’t letting anything deflect him.”

  “And,” Bill Abbott said, “I think we had better all pray like hell, for him, and for the country, and for everybody, everywhere.”

  If the President had entertained any naïve hopes that the events of the night would remain private, or that they would be fairly stated if they did not remain private, those hopes were exploded at noon in the world’s headlines:

  Tashikov in Peking, reveals secret Washington meeting with President. Soviet leader says Knox adamant in pushing new offensives in war zones. He and Chinese warn President “must bear full responsibility for all consequences which will automatically flow from any new U.S. aggressions.” Promise “severest possible retaliation upon u.s. if war-mad policies continue.”

  White House refuses comment.

  Civil defense units take stations throughout country.

  Atomic giants appear headed for direct clash.

  And three hours later, in a corollary perhaps inevitable, given the nature of the world in the declining years of a sick and sorry century:

  Son’s finger with wedding ring sent to President in special-delivery package. Captors issue statement to all media: “Rep. Knox and his wife will die at 8 a.m. tomorrow unless U.S. war plans are halted immediately. The President must appear on television and confirm this to the world, otherwise he will see his children again, but not alive.”

  White House refuses comment.

  Somehow he got through the afternoon, checked plans with the Pentagon, managed to maintain an iron control in the sight of the staff, managed to be the President, apparently undaunted and undismayed. At one point he did retire for a brief “nap,” during which he broke down completely—let the tears and agony come for the better part of fifteen minutes—then told himself that he had chosen his course, he must follow it to the end and must be brave—brave … and so presently reappeared and went back to work, eyes red-rimmed, face drawn and white but adamantine again as he went about the final details of preparation. You could not deal with such people. Recent years had proved that you simply could not, or not only two lives, but all, could be lost.

  At various points his predecessor, Cullee, Stanley, the Munsons, Warren Strickland, the Maudulaynes, the Barres and Krishna Khaleel all called to express awkward but desperately earnest sympathy; tinged, inevitably, with an overtone of fear as to what was going to happen. He thanked them all gravely, reiterated his confidence that all would be well, gave no sign of yielding. Saddened and as desperately unhappy as he at the abysses, personal, national and international, which seemed to be opening beneath their feet, they too went back to their accustomed routines, achingly precious now that all routines appeared on the verge of dissolution. Somehow the day, the world, life, the universe, inched forward, slowly, slowly, under the dreadful burden of what appeared to be about to happen.

  At 9 p.m., one hour from the time when he was to call the Pentagon with the final code word to launch the attack, the appointments secretary announced that an unexpected visitor wanted to see him. Any other time he might have refused, but now there was nothing left to do but await the hour and try not to think any more about anything, if he could help it. His visitor, of whom he had always been very fond during their days together in the Senate and at the UN, might provide welcome diversion.

  “Show him in,” he said, and after a moment the appointments
secretary did so, saying, “Senator Smith,” in a quick, almost embarrassed way and then withdrawing hastily as Lafe came forward hesitantly toward the desk.

  “Lafe,” he said, holding out his hand.

  “Orrin—” Lafe said, “Mr. President—” He shook hands, hard. “I am so sorry.”

  “Sit down,” the President said. “Don’t be sorry. There’s so much to be sorry for that it’s beyond—don’t be sorry. I am grateful to you for coming. I need company, right now. None better for me, I suspect. What’s on your mind?”

  “The continuity of life,” Lafe said, quite unexpectedly for a practical mind not often given to philosophizing. “Two things have happened to me today and I thought you might like to hear about them. Not that they are very important in view of—of what you’re facing—”

  “Of what we’re all facing,” he said gravely, and Lafe nodded unhappily.

  “Right … But, anyway, they mean something to me, and I thought maybe they might mean something to you, and that maybe—maybe you’d be a little heartened by them. So,” he added somewhat lamely, “I thought I’d just come by and tell you. No other reason. I just thought I’d come by and tell you because I thought—maybe—right now—you’d like to hear something good—unimportant, I suppose—but good.…”

  “I would be delighted,” he said with a momentary return of the old ruefully humorous Orrin, “to hear something good, however unimportant.” Quite abruptly, quite beyond his control, his eyes filled with tears. Lafe’s responded, and for several moments they both stared hard out the window at the frozen night and said no more.